Aliyn Raven

Short sketches from the lives of a variety of people through the eyes of an ironic lady.

Story-9. May Christmas and the Cure for the Loneliness Epidemic

December had only just begun, but pre-Christmas fever was already sweeping the city. And the main preparations for the holiday were taking place not on the sales floor but in a small office space adjacent to it: exquisitely designed letter-cards to clients, delivery reservations, market analysis, and much more.
"What are you doing for Christmas?" asked Riana's new assistant, Claire, a pretty twenty-year-old student.
"Sleep," Riana smiled.
"Sleep?" Claire asked, surprised.
"From midday on Christmas Eve to midday on Boxing Day. The days leading up to Christmas bring in a year's worth of revenue. The rest of the time, the store operates at a loss, you know. During the peak tourist season and on all sorts of short-lived holidays like Valentine's Day, Halloween, and Easter, profit equals expenses. But the store only feeds me at Christmas. However, a year's supply of fat must be paid for with almost nonstop work. The shop will be open six hours longer, I'll take on additional capacity for the website, and I'll sign a contract with a 24-hour delivery company; otherwise, I simply won't have time. I'm already looking for additional help for these days. And I'm not sure I'll acquire any, since many small shops are in the same situation. The law prohibits requiring employees to work extra hours, even for extra pay. Overtime is strictly regulated. And I don't want to go bankrupt. So I'm doing all the work myself."
Claire looked at Riana sympathetically.
"It's so sad to be alone at Christmas."
"If I'm comfortable being alone all the other days, why should I be sad about being alone at Christmas?" Riana didn't understand.
"Well... It's a holiday. A family holiday!"
"I'm my own best family."
Claire shook her head and exclaimed:
"But you can't do without holidays!"
"And we don't," Riana agreed. "That's why my Christmas will be in May, during the dead tourist season in this city. For holidays, we—small business owners, equally swamped by traditional Christmas chaos, along with our families, those of us who have them—rent a small hotel on the lake for the weekend and invite entertainers, a stand-up comedian, and fireworks specialists."
"Oh... Well..." Claire was so flustered she couldn't find the words right away. She finally asked, "You and some of your company are indifferent to the religious aspect of Christmas; it's obvious. But aren't there any believers among you?"
"They say prayer improves sleep. And that Jesus taught us all to love and understand one another, so He Himself will understand when the celebration in His honour takes place a little later, but with full dedication. It's the same with God the Father and the Holy Spirit—we are all Their children, and They will not be angry with tired sons and daughters. Mary and Joseph will understand even more what it's like to earn enough to put food on the table while work lasts."
Claire shook her head.
"It's hard for me to understand how I feel about this, but the fact that it has a right to exist is undeniable. We all have force majeure circumstances, and they're all different. Heaven will truly understand and support those who believe in it. For those who don't believe, it simply doesn't exist, so what difference does it make when they celebrate? Is it the same with other holidays?"
"Yes," said Riana. "It's the same with Easter, Halloween, St John's Fest, and the rest. The advantage is that a small hotel allows you to decide when you want to be part of the crowd and when you want to be quiet, without losing the overall festivities. And this alternation makes the holiday truly enjoyable."
Claire laughed at this and nodded.
"You're right," she said. "I'm incredibly tired after Christmas with my family. I love them; I miss them. But at the same time, I'm so happy that we only have one Christmas a year."
"What if, while visiting family, you stayed in a hotel or rented a campervan? You could spend time with them in measured doses, just as much as you enjoy. Then you could get together for Easter and Halloween without compromising your peace of mind."
"That's an interesting idea," Claire mused. "Then my room could be given to my brother's children from his ex-wife. She brings her son to his grandparents for Christmas, along with her new husband's daughter from his first marriage, because his mother and her new husband's ex-wife's mother go on Christmas trips with friends. And my parents have a tradition of having the whole family over for Christmas—even extended family. And the children of other relatives come too… My room could come in handy."
Brian, the second assistant at the store, a pretty dark-haired man in his thirties, looked at Claire with interest and asked with a hint of sarcasm, "So what does the ex-wife of your brother's ex-wife's new husband do for Christmas?"
"I have no clue. It looks like she sleeps all the time too. She makes custom art-chocolates. Now I realise she desperately needs some peace and solitude during the holidays."
"And she's not married?" Brian clarified.
"No. And she doesn't want to get married again. I don't think she even has a boyfriend. She tried a relationship once, and it was no longer interesting."
"Marriage isn't a game!" Brian protested. "But you don't even want to understand how disgusting that sounds: the ex-wife of my brother's ex-wife's new husband!"
"An unsuccessful marriage is what's truly disgusting," Claire replied calmly. "If there are no interests and pleasures in the relationship, or if the passion has faded over time, this relationship is not needed. And even more so, a marriage should end if it's interfering with your friendships, your career, and your hobbies. With domestic violence, there's no discussion at all—you need to run to the police immediately. And whether or not to remarry is secondary. Even a first marriage isn't necessary. Love is highly overrated because of all these cheap books and movies. Friends provide all the warmth we need."
"What if your friends get married and start families?" Brian asked venomously. "You'll just sit on the couch alone, useless!"
"I'll find new friends; that's no problem. The world is full of women who don't want to get married and never will."
"And they're all fat and ugly!" Brian hissed.
"Firstly, no, they're mostly slender ladies because they don't need to eat their way through the stresses of family life, but they have time to go to the gym. Secondly, I'm friends with personalities, not looks, and a cheerful, pimply fat woman is better to me than a dull top model. And thirdly, the world is full of women who have found husbands who don't hinder female friendships."
Brian said gloatingly and lecturingly, "There’s no such thing as female friendship! There’s only competition for the alpha males."
"No wonder no woman wants to know you exist with your friends from alpha tales."
Riana looked at the rapidly escalating quarrel and said loudly, "You need to get a cat. Two is better."
Claire and Brian looked at her with equal surprise, unsure who she was talking to.
Riana smiled at Brian and said, "Cats are the best way to learn how to communicate with people. Cats are gentle and independent; they're loving and unobtrusive. Cats don't submit; they partner. And if you post photos of your sincere care for your cat on social media, many people will post photos in return, and you will have wide-ranging communication and an online Christmas with your close ones. Especially if you have other interests besides your cat: movies, embroidery, football, video games—whatever. The more common interests you have, the stronger the friendship. And there's an added bonus." Riana smiled again and explained, "While no man can compare to a cat in attractiveness, any man can have a cat, and then women's interest in him is guaranteed. All that remains is to maintain their interest."
"Cats are for women left on the shelf!" Brian said angrily. "And for male losers who pick them up because they have no chance of anything better."
He looked at Riana and said, "You don't have a cat!"
"I'm hardly ever home, and leaving a pet alone is cruel. Even a dog doesn't handle constant travel well, and for a cat, it's pure torture. But the world offers plenty of other opportunities for conversation, opportunities to make friends with women. And your female friends will definitely introduce you to their friends who want to get married. If, of course, you're looking for a wife, you need to be friends with her, too, and not just share bed and board."
"Friendship between a man and a woman is impossible!" Brian said categorically.
"Friendship between a man and a woman is only impossible for those whose brain is located below the waist," Riana laughed. "But everyone has the right to choose from which position to look at the world, and what's below the waist is no worse than what's above the shoulders. And the Waifu-chatbot can be configured as desired and enjoyed."
"What?" Brian asked, surprised. "What are you talking about?"
Riana readily explained:
"The manosphere is quite vast. You'll fill your evenings with it perfectly. You'll never have non-digital women in your life, but you don't really need them. And that's OK. Throughout human history, there have always been plenty of closed communities for confirmed bachelors, and they were happy in their little world. Especially if you take up something else on the side, from colouring initials to assembling spaceship models."
"Women always want a dominant, masculine man who will make decisions and guide them," Brian insisted, even declared it. "But not everyone will be worthy of his attention."
"Go ahead," Rihanna agreed. "Websites where you can complain about being thrown out by security at a nightclub or mall after demonstrating your dominance and masculinity to some woman are always eager for new users. And they'll always recommend fresh skins for your e-wife—you don't have to be a friend, an equal partner, or an interesting conversationalist with her. You also don't have to worry about her pleasure or comfort. As a result, you're happy with e-wives, and real women are happy you'll never approach them."
"I’ve got plenty of chicks," Brian said smugly. "The only trouble is picking the most worthy of the lot."
"Best of luck with that," Riana replied with a sweet shopkeeper’s smile. "The main thing is to avoid approaching ladies who haven't invited you, and everything will be just as wonderful."
Brian was about to say something, but Lucas, an olive-skinned, dark‑eyed student assistant, cut him off and told Riana.
"You always say you have to do something to escape loneliness."
Riana smiled.
"All dictionaries tell us that friendship is a selfless, asexual relationship for pleasure and mutual support. And a relationship can only be pleasurable if it's about something you're interested in. And you can only support someone in some activity. Accordingly, the more interests you have, the more friends you have. And everyone has their own life, you know. And to fill all seven days of the week with friendship, you need at least eight friends—schedules and circumstances have a habit of changing regardless of our wishes, and the wonderful system of "On Monday I'll be friends with Michael about classical poetry, and on Tuesday with Jane about shooter games" doesn't always align with reality. Therefore, if you feel lonely and want to find friends, you first need to find something you enjoy doing so much that you forget about the outside world."
"And as soon as you stop doing that, your friends abandon you!" Lucas said angrily and indignantly.
Riana spread her hands sympathetically.
"People change. And then you need new friends. Once you find one, you'll find others. It's a bit of a hassle, but it can be solved."
"And again, no one cares about the person themselves," Lucas fumed. "You're with your friends, but you're alone."
"If you're feeling lonely, you need other friends. We're only lonely with those who don't share our views, and so we have no one to talk to about our thoughts and feelings."
"Oh, yes, thoughts and feelings," Lucas replied sarcastically. "They invite you back to the ceramics club; they say they miss you, but no one wants to sit in the pub with you specifically. You are not a person to them but a talking add-on to their entertainment."
"And what are they to you? A toilet bowl for spewing your bitterness the world?" Riana smirked. "Puking it out is necessary, sure, but that's what support groups are for. There you can dump all your grievances against this damn world that refuses to be the way you want it to. However, everything in life comes with a price. And in a support group, you pay that price by listening to someone else's vomit. Or at least pretending to listen while you sit in that circle. And, oddly enough, listening to other people’s whining can sometimes give you the answers to your own problems. You can even ask clarifying questions—they'll only be glad for the attention."
"You go to a support group?!" Lucas was astonished.
"I'm a real person. I have problems. I can't seem to avoid them. I just don't show my illness outside the hospital, and I run to spew in the lavatory, not to someone else's flowerbed."
"Interesting approach," Lucas mused. "I'm not sure I want to try it, but I'll keep it under review."
"And look for new friends?"
"Well..." Lucas sighed. "If I follow your lead, I don't have a chance. I'm not interested in anything; I don't want anything. I even quit video games as soon as I started. I'm not writing a dissertation because I don't see the benefit. Or rather, there is, and it's significant, but I'm no longer interested in it. I haven't been interested in anything, and I don't want anything for a long time."
"And many people with the same problem want to be friends about it. Each of us, of course, is a snowflake and unique, but no matter what we do, there will always be at least a dozen like-minded people in the world. The first newspaper ads seeking pen pals or vacations appeared in the last quarter of the seventeenth century. Yes, in the time of the Merry Monarch and the Sun King. Do you think the bored provincials of those times had many topics to talk about? But boredom is the best inventor. And in the age of the internet and social media, which are in your pocket, loneliness is impossible. Only if someone creates it for themselves. And then you have to consider: do you really need friends, whose necessity is so often shouted about? You don't have to live by a template. Besides, in our paradoxical world, not wanting to have friends is an excellent opportunity to chat about it with a wide range of interlocutors of all kinds."
Lucas laughed.
"Indeed... Nowhere are there so many people to talk to as in social media groups that reject the need for communication and friendship. And the people they talk to are generally polite and non-toxic."
He shook his head.
"I don't remember who said it, but it was right: 'We fear being alone only when we know our inner selves demand we solve our problems.' So it's time to deal with them."
"The main beat is to tackle them one at a time," said Riana. "It doesn't matter which one you start with. There's no point in wasting time ranking them into big and small. Beat the one you see first. The others will slow down on their own. And in time, you'll kill them all."
"Oh, yeah", Lucas smiled. "I noticed that too. And you know what else I noticed? If you solve problems instead of sweeping them under the rug, friends naturally appear in the process."

All stories are here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/52497217

Short sketches from the lives of a variety of people through the eyes of an ironic lady.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52497217
https://www.fictionpress.com/s/3370230/1/Riana-s-Adventures

Story-7. The Amoeba, the Old Lady, and the Perfect Life

Riana hired Ethan during the seasonal tourist boom, when there were more salesperson positions available than people willing to take on this not-the-most-pleasant job.
Ethan was knowledgeable about antiques and vintage items and knew many stories about their eras. However, conveying this information coherently and engagingly proved beyond his abilities—Ethan was rather bumbling and had trouble communicating with customers.
Much to Riana's annoyance, the tourist boom also meant an influx of garage sales and car boot sales, so she couldn't possibly man the counter by herself. Riana adored trips to flea markets of all kinds, spending almost all her time there. She bought the antique shop only so that her apartment wouldn't be filled with antiques, and she always had an excuse to buy more. Riana enjoyed the process of searching for and buying items, rather than storing and possessing them, so she sold her finds without regret. However, life demands income, and the shop always had a capable assistant. Ethan, alas, proved to be the exception to the rule.
And now Riana sat on the customer sofa, looking at her salesperson and wondering which would be less costly: missing the peak of buying activity or accepting the lack of sales at the peak of the trading wave.
Meanwhile, Ethan was nervously typing something on his phone almost every five minutes, becoming even less attentive to customers and messages on the store's website.
Riana usually didn't interfere with her employees' affairs, but now it was directly related to the store.
"Did something happen?" Riana asked Ethan.
"My grandmother. She broke her leg."
Riana was a little surprised. The event was sad, of course, but why so many messages? An elderly woman should be looked after by a sick nurse—either paid or from social services, but a professional is always needed: if the condition is serious, an untrained grandson is of no use, especially over the phone.
"Are you sure it makes sense to bother an elderly woman with messages? She needs more sleep if she's sick. Sleep is medicine at her age."
"If only she were sleeping!" Ethan sighed. "My grandmother, despite her advanced years, is a very active person. Before her leg accident, she spent almost every day volunteering. 'So that her brain doesn't dry out and I don't forget how to talk,' as she used to say."
"I understand," Riana nodded. "But your messages won't help her feel like an active part of big events. Teach her how to play MMORPGs instead."
"What?!" Ethan was dumbfounded. "She's eighty years old!"
"There are now hundreds of online games that support voice communication, and you can quickly find one that doesn't require the quick reflexes of an eSports athlete but offers plenty of puzzles and group quests for a minimal level of difficulty. Your grandmother doesn't need to break the records of hardcore gamers, but chatting with casual players and leisurely looting and crafting will bring joy to her instincts. In any RPG, you become, one way or another, an individual gatherer and a collective hunter. And if you have the opportunity to build a hut, that's a real feast. We're not that far removed from the proto-Homo era, when people would fill their bellies with the results of hunting and gathering before stubbornly trying to build a makeshift shelter from branches, stones, and grass that would last at least a day." Riana smiled. "Successful games take advantage of this genetic memory. And MMORPGs, unlike regular games, also allow you to communicate not only with characters but also with people."
"Grandma hates social media," Ethan shook his head. "She says it's for idiots."
"But MMORPGs aren't social media. People gather there to play with dolls. It's a legal and socially acceptable way to relive childhood. People invent extra biographical details and events for their characters and talk to them like dolls. It's not the worst way to unwind and relax. At least, it is for casual players. For them, communication, stories, and characters are more important than shooting, hacking, and running through obstacles."
Ethan started to hesitate. But he said, "MMORPG social circles are toxic."
Riana countered, "Owners of MMO-games have dramatically tightened user safety measures after the case where a female character was raped in an online video game, and the court ruled it equal to real-life rape, since a person takes on a character to get their emotions for themselves. Now you can set the approach distance for other players' characters and blacklist individual players and groups. You'll be in the same location as them, but you won't see each other. Besides, only fans of the game and hardcore gamers are truly toxic, and if they can't play due to work, they spend every traffic jam and every coffee break in the office browsing gaming news, streams, and chats. Of course, not all hardcore gamers are vicious and aggressive. There are plenty of nice people among them who don't impose their hobbies or rules on others and who can laugh at their extreme passion. There are also midcore gamers who value daily gaming and showing off their achievements, but at a moderate level. And midcore gamers are the majority. However, a newbie who can't yet identify an inadequate interlocutor within the first few minutes of interaction is better off hanging out with the casual crowd."
"What's the difference?" Ethan asked, puzzled.
"Casual gamers log into the game for half an hour in the evening, and not every day. They play while dinner is heating up and their favourite TV show hasn't started yet. Casualers also sometimes go on in-game raids, but not to win a super prize and admire their super rating afterwards, but simply to hang out in good company against the backdrop of new locations, take screenshots, and not care if they forget to kill a monster. Casual players aren't obsessed with breaking records, so they're friendly and easy to talk to, and the game is simply an excuse to chat, a way to combat the notorious loneliness epidemic. It's perfect for comforting a grandmother who has lost her ability to walk. Most importantly, choose an MMO-game that falls under the 'Player versus Content' category, not 'Player versus Player', so there are fewer reasons for conflict between players."
"Player versus Environment," Ethan clarified. He added, "Yes, that's the most relaxed option from the gaming community's perspective. But still, an MMO-game for an old lady..." Ethan was still hesitant.
"For an energetic old lady," Riana reminded him. "Who, at twenty years old, was partying wildly with hippies, and at thirty years old, was fighting for the rights of career women and protecting housewives from domestic violence and financial pressure. Real grandmothers are very different from the image that still lingers in movies and books."
"You're right," Ethan nodded. "But is it possible to find a game that won't look silly or juvenile to a mature woman?"
"These high-profile failures of expensive video games are all caused by companies targeting teenagers and hardcore gamers who cling to their teenage memories of the early 1990s. A successful gaming company always has a sales analytics department. They know that, these days, the main consumer group for any product more complex than a frozen pizza is women over forty-five years old who are university-educated and unmarried. They have divorced or never wanted to get married. These women mostly have one child who lives their own life, so their lives are not so different from those of ones who chose not to have children. These women enjoy short entertainment sessions, but they expect meaningful and emotional depth."
Ethan was slightly taken aback by what he had heard. Riana continued, "Think of any successful AAA or indie game from recent years, and you'll realise that the developers were targeting women over forty-five and only adding elements to their content for teenagers and older, hardcore gamers."
"Hmm... I never thought of video games that way, but... You might be right about single-player games, but MMO-games are a different world."
"MMO-games are more sensitive to the market," said Rianna, "since they can't compensate for their failure with other products. The newer ones, who still need to find their place in the sun, are especially savvy. Just tell your grandma not to buy anything in a MMO-game. You can play without all those legendary swords, super blasters, extra character collections, and other nonsense that MMO-game insistently advertise."
"Well, I don't know... It's impossible without investment!" Ethan said incredulously.
"Giving money for an MMO-game would be reasonable only if you personally want to donate to the one because this product is creating a good mood for you. Or you have a strong desire to collect a bunch of pictures that are essentially useless but personally enjoyable," Rianna chuckled. "The reason is more than valid, so why not? The main thing is to know your limits and not buy more than your bank account allows for on-the-spot sweet nothings. I mean, exactly 'three seconds here and now'; you can't take seriously a bunch of pixels that could disappear at any minute if the MMO-game closes."
Ethan shrugged. And Riana said, "It's also important to find Grandma not just one game, but two or three. MMO-games often shut down, but there are plenty of new ones to replace them. It's important for a newbie not to get too attached to one thing and to understand how easily everything can be replaced."
"Ouch," Ethan said, stunned, "I never would have thought of that! You're right, it's not right for an old lady to stress out like a stupid teenager just because her favourite MMO-project shut down when there are plenty of others just as good, if not better."
It was obvious Ethan had been through a similar experience himself, and his growth hadn't come easy. However, he had grown stronger, so Ethan wasn't hopeless. Not that it mattered to Riana, but she felt sorry for the unknown old woman. And she said,
"Start with the MMO-games you play, and then we'll see whether to look for new ones or not."
Ethan suddenly looked embarrassed. It seemed he wasn't exactly a great gamer either.
Riana smiled, "Not a bad reason to start over, refresh your memories, review, and purge your contacts of the less-than-pleasant people, is it?"
"Yeah, I guess it's time," Ethan mused. "And decide whether to stick with the boosted accounts or look for something new."
And at that moment, Riana found a solution for herself.
"You'll need a lot of time for your grandma. I can put you on a temporary contract for working three hours a day. You'll sit in the warehouse and sort through the inventory that's accumulated. Add it to the website catalogue—photos, descriptions, hashtags, and a short story about it. The pay will be lower, but at least you won't have to pay for grandma's antidepressants. We'll renew the contract monthly. I can't expand my staff because of the format of the establishment, but I need a merchandiser."
"Hmm..." Ethan thought again. "Could I have one full day a week? Commuting is really inconvenient for me; it takes up a lot of my time. I can even work longer than a standard workday, ten hours. On Sundays, for example... No, on Mondays, when there are no customers."
"Okay," Riana nodded. "Write your resignation from this position, and I'll draw up a contract. My laptop is to your left, on the shelf under the display case."
Riana quickly changed a few words in one of the contract templates she had for freelancers and fired Ethan, only to rehire him immediately. And the guy went to his grandmother.
Riana started looking for a salesperson in a place she wouldn't have thought of before: an MMO-game tavern.
Essentially, it's a chat with a corresponding design. And gamers' profiles can be used to find those who live in the same city as Riana. After all, you don't necessarily need to hire just one permanent salesperson! Two or three contract players during peak season will solve the problem. And the chat history can help her figure out who's not just looking for a part-time job but also who might be suitable for a position. Of course, not everyone fills out profiles, but Riana doesn't need a crowd.
She spent about three hours searching but found five candidates and sent out job offers.
Two of them were accepted. Riana sent her travel schedule to the future assistants so they could arrange their own work schedules. She also planned to work behind the counter occasionally—the shop couldn't be left entirely to the assistants.
One of those days when Riana was working at the shop, Ethan brought in another batch of completed inventory sheets for new products—global digitalisation was a fait accompli, but the Trade Commission and Tax Service still demanded paper reports.
"How's your grandmother?" Rianna asked.
"Great. She launched an online project to draw the developers' attention to the fact that many gamers are of retirement age, and they need appropriate amenities and stories for them. She's living an active life again and has forgotten that her leg is in a cast."
Despite the good news, Ethan's expression was gloomy. Riana noted this but didn't ask any questions; she was interested in other things.
"Is it really that there are many people over sixty-seven?" Riana asked, surprised. She added thoughtfully, "Perhaps the sales managers know this, given the sharp increase in RPGs with turn-based combat. They're essentially chess, not reaction time or finger dexterity on a keyboard or gamepad. Chess can be played by both an old man and a child. But MMO-games were never intended to be adapted for people aged sixty-seven and up. Your grandmother would give this world quite a surprise. Fashion shows, supermodels, and everything else for the retirement age group have been successfully in existence for the past fifteen years. It's time for gaming to shed its ageism."
"Turn-based MMO-games have been around for a long time, if that's what you're asking," Ethan said reluctantly, his expression darkening even more. "Very few, but they exist. But, generally speaking, you're right. Non-turn-based ones can also be adapted, creating a new, easier difficulty level and adding more opportunities for free communication. That's what grandma says. And she's gathering supporters."
"Your grandma is a true miracle and a star. She's created a new, active life for herself for many years to come. Although the fracture will heal, the years will still take their toll. And gaming will give her the opportunity for a rich life even from a wheelchair."
"Yes. It's all true," Ethan continued, his expression darkening.
"Something wrong?" Riana asked.
He shrugged in annoyance.
"You wouldn't understand... You have a shop, and it's profitable. My mother got a promotion. My father has a new project. Even my grandmother is pursuing a career. And I can never even find a normal job... Everything I don't do goes to... You know where. I can never achieve anything. Even at gaming, my grandmother is better than me! And me... I'm just a loser no one wants! No girlfriend, no career."
"Do you really want a career?" Riana asked with a warm smile. "Or do you really need success? Are you really just dying to get a girlfriend?"
She held out her hands in a graceful gesture, emphasising that Ethan wasn't interested in any of that. Then she said, "You have enough income to buy food, a roof over your head, electricity, and free time to play free video games. You probably even have a streaming channel with TV series from the newest to the oldest. And no one's stopping you from doing all of that. You have everything you need to enjoy life."
"That's the life of an amoeba!" Ethan protested.
"What's so bad about amoebas?" Riana asked, surprised. "They've been thriving for seven hundred and fifty million years, safely surviving all the meteorite impacts, volcanic eruptions, and civilisational transitions. And they'll survive a nuclear war, if one ever comes. They've never cared what the Universe does, or what anyone thinks of them. Amoebas, these unrivalled individualists, simply enjoy their own lives, each on its own."
Ethan smiled faintly.
"Grandma says I'll get better with time. But she won't say when. She also understands that I'm a useless loser. But at least she doesn't blame me for it."
Ethan smiled faintly.
"Grandma says I'll get better with time. But she won't say when. She also understands that I'm a useless loser. But at least she doesn't blame me for it."
"Do you know what an amoeba does when it feels uncomfortable?" Riana smiled. "It swims away. And that's what made it a champion survivor."
Ethan paused.
"I don't want to fight with my relatives."
"Why fight?" Riana asked, surprised. "Just swim away. When they realise they love you for who you are, you'll swim back."
"But what if they don't realise it?" Ethan asked bitterly.
"That'll be their problem. Nothing will change for your happy life."
Ethan shrugged.
Riana smiled.
"Think about it. Just think about it."
And she went about her business.
Ethan renewed his contract when it expired. But he warned he wouldn't renew it for a third term.
"Grandma and I are moving to a village in the mountains. A revival programme is in place, and the Sheriff's Office provides a modest living allowance. I'll be working remotely part-time and doing heavy housework. Grandma will be streaming videos about the village and playing video games. Not to become a video hosting star, but for her three friends, who find this video hosting platform more convenient than others. I'm helping with the filming. We are like two tiny amoebas in their own tiny swamp; the rest of the world doesn't care about us."
"Good luck," Riana nodded.

A long time in a galaxy far, far away, everything was completely different from what was written in the history textbooks at the demand of the rulers and their rivals.
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Note: Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.


— 6 —

Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.

The investigator arrived at the Academy an hour after my Force let the side down. The investigator interrogated not only me and Sliffe but also everyone who could even slightly see the scene on that bench.
I realised belatedly that there was video surveillance in the park. And the investigator saw what essay I was writing and what clause I was preparing to say.
There is no doubt that the investigator is a former Sith or Jedi, or both. Otherwise, he would not have understood anything about the incident.
"Don't worry, Eirian," said one of the school psychologists who had been monitoring my interrogation. "They'll catch this brat."
As soon as the investigator arrived, the Academy sent all the students to the medical room for a checkup. The teachers allegedly wanted to find out if the Force had harmed anyone. Yeah, right... The investigator is looking for someone with an elevated midi-chlorian count.
I managed to convince Sliffe, who was dragging me to the nurse, that I was fine. Now, I must wait for the secret Forcean to complain to their parents about the medical procedure that was performed without their consent. Strictly speaking, the boarding school has the right to make medical and legal decisions of minor and moderate importance on behalf of the parents, but they can always intervene.
Unless it's a student and not a guard or a gardener.
I wonder, can parents be able to take their child from the boarding school quickly?
Mine Mum and Dad will at least try. I hope someone else will come to pick up their children too, which will cause more noise and distract attention from me.
At home, I tested my blood while I was wearing the talisman I made similar to the tattoo that disappeared. It showed a normal number of midi-chlorians. But now they're going to test me with the latest technology, and I'm not sure this talisman will hide my damn mutation.
I answered the investigator's questions, thinking about what he had found. He is too easy to accept "I didn't notice anything, I didn't understand anything, I was in a swoon" from a direct participant in the events.
And I also urgently need to talk to Major Tucker.
"I need to go to the lavatory."
The psychologist was clearly tired of sitting through interrogations of underage ones, and she immediately attacked the investigator, saying that the interrogation was harmful to a minor with health problems.
The investigator let me go and gave the report to the psychologist to sign. I didn't look at what was written because I hadn't said anything serious anyway, and the psychologist is responsible and careful; there are no others in the expensive school and she won't allow the investigator to write anything unnecessary.
I ran to the restroom. Of course, it's impossible to talk in a stall with no roof and a huge gap at the bottom so that the sensors can only detect one user in the stall (to combat potential violence, yes). But there's a utility room next to the lavatory with a cleaning droid. And Tucker taught me how to use it to make room for secret calls. Jedi wisdom, he said. The Sith had more freedom. It was not much, but it was better than nothing.
I rang Tucker's emergency number. He promised to answer it any time, day or night, no matter what he was doing.
I told him about how the Force had suddenly appeared and disappeared. And I asked:
"The police and the army have many Forceans. No one is hunting them. Why should I hide?"
"Life is shit," Tucker said. "It's not fair. You know that, having had so many illnesses since infancy. And the universe is full of idiots. They believe that people who have been both Sith and Jedi and then escaped are safe for Kadvir. But a Forcean child could potentially become a Jedi or a Sith, and therefore an enemy. The Big Republic has attacked Kadvir four times. And the Empire has done it three times. All seven times Kadvir has given the aggressors a good beating, but no one here has forgotten anything. Kadvir is formally neutral, but the Empire and the Republic are enemies to all of us. Especially now, as the Empire slides back into famine due to government regulation of the economy and the Republic seeks to show its strength against another wave of separatism."
Tucker sighed.
"It's complicated for someone your age, but I'll try to put it simply. Kadvir is afraid that the Empire and the Republic will try to distract their citizens from their problems by attacking us. And our government has reasons for that. The Republic and the Empire are run by idiots who, instead of improving the lives of their citizens, want to ruin the lives of all their neighbours so that their citizens don't envy them."
"But why not teach the Kadvir Forseans to use the Force in a way that would be useful to Kadvir?" I didn't understand.
"There's no use for the Force, buddy. None at all."
"But why?" I insisted. "Show business, for example... Only one child in a hundred can study music. And one in ten thousand of those who do become musicians. But even in municipal schools there is a music course with a dozen different specialisations, and musical-instrument factories are flourishing. The same goes for painting and dance."
"Music has been a huge industry since prehistoric times, kid." Tucker laughed sadly. "So have dancing, painting and cooking. No matter how much AI can do these things, talented people are still needed. If the Force could make money, schools would teach it like maths. And engineers would find a way to use the Force for everyone. Adapters, transitions... You use an AI music arranger tuned to your emotions. And video games still require live artists; restaurants boast special dishes from a live chef. And the Force... It's zero."
"Well…" Tucker seemed embarrassed. But he said decisively, "Oh, well, you're already taking sex education classes. Near the Foreign Legion base, there's a throng of prostitutes of all sexes and races hanging around 24 hours a day. They're waiting for the next legionnaire to get a day off and go squander his weekly pay. When I juggled beer cans without touching them or made funny figures out of straws in the air, prostitutes would have sex with me for free. I saved faster for my first house, which I rented out. In a real war, without stupid blasters and worthless plasma, it is not the Force that helps, but a bulletproof vest and the ability to shoot better than the enemy."
"But the world is changing," I persisted. "Many things that were not needed before have become useful now. Especially in the entertainment industry. Economists say that video games, toys, and pet care products make more money than mining. If you can be an arranger and even a composer via an adapter, why can't you grow midi-chlorians on farms like potatoes and sheep?"
I phrased my question crookedly, but Tucker said:
"Try it, buddy. Why not? Maybe you really will make the Force a sought-after commodity. A lot of children and parents will thank you when the Force is taught to everyone in regular schools, like operating a computer."
"Children and parents..." I repeated, trying to catch the escaping thought. And I said, "In the army and other security agencies of Cadvir, married employees or single parents are considered more reliable. Major Tucker, have you noticed that only those who were happy with their parents as children became renegade Jedi? Anakin Skywalker, Count Dooku, Xanatos…"
"Luke Skywalker was loyal to the Jedi, he revived the Order, even though he grew up in a happy family."
"No, " I said. "When a child calls his guardians 'uncle' and 'aunt' and not 'Mum' and 'Dad,' he is unhappy. Leia is also an adopted child, but she had a Mum and Dad. The family of Breha Antilles-Organa, her adoptive mother, was kind enough to Leia to feel at home there and to consider the planet Alderaan as a piece of her. And this despite the fact that the family is royal, that is, with dashes of madness and quirks. But the Skywalkers tolerated Luke as something alien that would eventually pay for itself by making a true farm heir for them. For farmers, the son they pass on their land to is the meaning of their lives. Farmers always love their children very much. You fought in the Frontier Belt; you saw how farmers treasured their children. The Skywalkers did not treat Luke that way. And unlike the Organa family, they didn't adopt a second child. Winter was also happy in the Organa family and got on well with her half-sister. And Leia was a very strong Forcean, but she didn't become a Jedi or a Sith. At the same time, Leia and Winter were loyal to the Republic. Or to their ideas of what it should be. And both sisters had their own families: marriage partners, children, and all that. The sisters loved their nephews and nieces and were taking them in and looking after them as if they were their own children when one of them had to go away on business."
"You may be right, Mx. Gwalchtan," Tucker said. "When I remember all the transitions from one side to another, I see most family persons who lost their family to the Dark Guard or the Light Order. Even Kylo Ren, the brainless loser, was loved by his family. Winter always took care of him, and Leia tried as best she could to provide a comfortable environment for her underdeveloped but generously Force-gifted son. It was not her fault that there was no choice but the equally underdeveloped Luke, who also never had a real family. It's unlikely that Leia seriously thought that 'Two morons are strong,' but she sincerely believed that two pathetic people could support each other and be happy away from ridicule. Moreover, Luke had many other students who were equally deprived of intelligence, and Kylo had the opportunity to make friends."
"You think all those stories about Palpatine, Luke, Rey, Darth Maul and the rest were real? They don't stand up to criticism! Just think of that ridiculous attack on the Imperial space base, or Death Star, or whatever it was, with bombers made out of containers for collecting space junk in planetary orbits."
"Don't mix flies with cutlets, Mx. Gwalchtan. Rebels and terrorists have made effective weapons out of worse things. And they've attacked successfully. A container for collecting junk as a bomber is a great idea, if you look at it from an engineer's point of view. But controlling the bomb release with a remote control like a home TV, rather than from the onboard computer, is nonsense. Only a degenerate would think of such a thing. But for the technical thinking of the Empire and the Republic, this is not surprising. Why do you think little Kadvir has defeated such large and heavily armed states so many times?"
"And the meat attacks?" I asked.
"For systems like the Empire and the Republic, human life has no meaning. That's why the rebels fight with flesh, not droids. The first thing the instructors at the Kadvir Army College say when they analyse this operation is that the fighters and bombers had to be unmanned, and the people controlling them remotely had to be hidden behind a wall of droids. And if for some reason the use of fly droids with AI, remote control and all that is impossible, then a small sabotage group is used, which enters the object, destroys it and returns home. The cost of a thousand large AI droids and the training of a small sabotage group is the same in money and in the number of soldiers saved from your army. It is not for nothing that the Empire, the Republic, and the Rebels break all records for the number of deserters. A self-respecting soldier will not stoop to serve in such an army. And when a soldier does not respect himself, the army always loses the war."
"The Empire is a little smarter," I noted.
"And that's why it attacked Kadvir three times, not four. As for the people you mentioned... Even if they are fictional, their story is completely reliable from a psychological point of view. An army commander doesn't study it as deeply as a psychologist, but it's impossible to command people in battle without understanding their souls. So you can certainly learn from the example of the Jedi-Sith-Rebel crowd how not to act."
"Why did you leave the Sith, Major Tucker? You were in the Guard from birth."
"I fell in love with a guy from my fencing group. And he returned my feelings. In the Empire, same-sex relations are punishable by death. So Eloy and I fled to the Big Republic, which, unlike the rest of the galaxy, isn't afraid of the Force and also doesn't execute gays. Alas, we had no other path in the Republic except to become Jedi. But the Light Order immediately told us about the taboo of any personal feelings, sent us to different planets to finish our studies, and forbade calls and letters. But we heard about neutral states with same-sex marriages. Aloy fled to the Trade Federation even before I fled to Kadvir. It wasn't that it was a neutral state, but he settled in well. He has a husband, two children cloned from their combined biomaterial, and a good career in the security of commercial shipments." He paused for a moment and added, before I could ask if he was still on the line, "Eloy suggested the escape. And he remembered his family. He missed them. They wrote to each other when they could. It was rare, but it was a living family connection. After Eloy fled to the Trade Federation, part of his family moved in with him. The second half of his family were Imperial fanatics and disowned him and the first half, but Eloy still had a home."
Tucker laughed bitterly.
"If you, my friend, make the Force a useful commodity, that will be great. If not, don't worry. The world is full of worthless things. The main thing is to take care of your life. Save your skin always and everywhere. There is nothing wrong with that, especially when you have a family."
"And I have quite a few jobs," I added. "Major Tucker, you may not believe this, but the owners of corporations always feel responsible for the people who work for them. None of us are benefactors, but in business the dependence is mutual. Without the people, we will go broke; without us, they will not get food and a roof over their heads."
"Why, Mx. Gwalchtan, I believe it. All the more reason to be careful."
I said goodbye and returned the droids to the utility room. Luckily, the noise raised by the investigation distracted everyone, and no one noticed that the droids were cleaning the john for too long.
I walked along the corridors and halls of the Academy to listen to the gossip. The directorate was full of parents who wanted to pick up their children. In some places along the corridors, children argued with their parents, not wanting to leave. And there was good news: almost all parents forbade their children to be tested for midi-chlorians, insisting that their children were normal, and therefore the Academy was insulting them with the suspicion of mutation. Well, it's all clear: almost all parents decided that excess midi-chlorians could have accumulated as their precious kid grew up and therefore hid their offspring from meeting the Jedi and Sith as best they could even before these very midi-chlorians were found.
"Tina Alverist," I heard a stern and categorical female voice, "you will go home right now! You will finish middle school in the municipal system, and instead of high school, you will go to a two-year sergeant course. By the time you reach adulthood, you will have a trade and a full school education. And after a year's service, you will begin training at the Army College by order of the command, or resign, because you will understand how much real military service differs from the movies."
I realised that this was Tina's mother. They were quite similar; only the mother was red-haired, and Tina was blonde.
And Tina's mother was a Forsean. I felt it. And I realised that she saw the Force in me.
I didn't know what to do. And I was very scared.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197

Small fanfic stories about "Baldur's Gate 3", written during the first playthrough to calm down my own emotions.
Gen, philosophy, politics, a little romance without eroticism.
The game is not finished yet, so it will be continued.
Wyll fans should not read this! Tav is not an angel! There is a slash. The rest is at your own risk.

— 1 —

"Whoever this Absolute is, but first of all, she's a complete fool." Tav roasted pieces of meat and tomato strung on a thin twig over the fire. They took a short rest not far from the road.
"Why?" Gale wondered.
The Absolute scared him. But at the same time, she beckoned with huge magic.
Lae'zel snorted disdainfully.
"She got in touch with the Mind Flayers. Do you not understand yourself?"
Tav shook his head.
"No. This is not a reason, but a consequence. She has no allies other than Mind Flayers and goblins because she's a fool. And Absolute is a fool because she wants to turn everyone into an obedient doll without their own will. This means that she will be forced to do everything herself, from interstate agreements to cleaning cesspools in cities. A wise manager delegated things to interpretive subordinates and gave them full freedom to decide everything according to the situation. "Go to that place, act on the situations, and bring me the prize." The role of the ruler is to set the direction, but not to rush into business. And to observe how the path to the goal changes due to changing circumstances. The world is constantly changing, so a leader is needed to adjust the routes. And the fool Absolute acts as if the world is static. She tries to make it like that, but it's impossible."
Gale looked at Tav in surprise, and Lae'zel nodded.
"Yes. Vlaakith gives an order, but how it is carried out is up to the Githyankis themselves. So the sooner we get rid of the tadpole, the better. Who knows when this abomination will awaken and turn us into Mind Flayers and slaves of the Absolute? We are lucky that our tadpoles are sleeping, but it will not last forever."
Astarion was silent. It would be unwise to draw attention to himself now. He was forced to reveal himself as a vampire last night and now remains in the group only through the patronage of Tav, whom he has convinced of his usefulness. But if the band insists, Tav will banish Astarion, and that means death. Astarion will not be able to hide from his former master-kidnapper alone—he stole once; he will steal again. And then death will be better for him than punishment from Cazador. Astarion doesn't have the strength to fight back, and who knows if he ever will? There is no reason to even dream of a second escape, because the first one was only successful because of a lucky accident. The second time, fate will not be so generous. And Astarion, as a born nobleman, is not very good at earning money either, but he did not want to live with beggars in flophouses or collect clothes in donation boxes near temples.
Therefore, it is necessary to conquer this group, not the best but still very useful, in which Astarion suddenly found himself.
But it takes time to manipulate the whole band, not just Tav.
And since Tav is the decision-maker here, it is necessary to conquer him first of all. Sex is a sure-fire tool, and there is no one better at it than Astarion. Tav has already agreed to receive compensation from Astarion for the bite in the form of sex. And after the next night, he will be like wax in Astarion's fingers, wanting more and more caresses from him.
Maybe.
There was something strange about Tava. An otherness that made him unlike anyone Astarion had ever known.
And it was exciting. For once, sex for profit will be pleasant. Many years ago, when Astarion sought the position of Magistrate, things were much worse with influential lovers and mistresses. If it weren't for the entertainment in the brothels, it would be completely unbearable.
And Tav... At that time, Astarion would have seduced him simply for his own pleasure—even when he had already become a magistrate, and people themselves began to try to pay him not only with gold but also with sex.
"It follows from this," said Tav meanwhile, "that the Absolute herself has long since turned into a toy in the hands of the courtiers. But they are also just as stupid; otherwise, they would not have tried to choose the same path. Unless they have bet on their band of those who don't have a tadpole. A flock of shepherds and brainless sheep. It doesn't work either, because for a sweet life, managers still need people to wash wool, spin, and sell clothes. And those who will buy it. The case of Absolute is doomed just like her puppeteer. But it won't be tomorrow. We run a high risk of not living to see it. And at the same time, we have a chance to get huge opportunities and make life much better for ourselves than it was. If we are careful and prudent."
"Nothing useful can come from Mind Flayers!" cried Lae'zel. "This is disgusting! We must get rid of all this!"
"I said nothing of the Mind Flayers or the Absolute. I'm only talking about the power that these fools have and use ineptly. Power itself is neither good nor evil. It doesn't even have its own will. It's just a thing that anyone can take. Think how useful and important you will be to your queen and how she will reward and promote you when you gain more power than now. Do not answer immediately; just think without haste."
Lae'zel pouted at him like a child coaxed by her father to eat wholesome oatmeal.
"Tsk'va. I hate it when you're right!"
Astarion froze. Tav wants to become Absolute?! It's... Why not? He has already done a lot that others have not been able to do. At the very least, Astarion will get a lot of use out of it, maybe even find a way to destroy Cazador and his entire vile pack. And he will have time to escape if something goes wrong with Tav.
Therefore, Astarion needs to convince him of his loyalty. And inflame in him an unbearable thirst for Astarion's body.
Astarion was an artisan of both, long before he became a vampire. But Tav also proved to be far more difficult than high-ranking Baldurians and even Cazador, his former (okay, not quite former) kidnapper and master.
And yet Astarion refused to give up
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60267364

Дрібненькі оповіданнячкі-фанфікі по "Baldur's Gate 3", написані по ходу першого проходження для заспокоєння власних емоцій і для мовної практики. І так, я граю українською.
Помилки перевіряв безкоштовний ШІ для школярів.
Джен, філософія, політика, трохи коханських стосунок без еротики.
Гру ще не пройшла, тому буде прода.
Прихильникам Вілла не читати! Тав не янгол! Слеш є. Решта на ваш ризик.

— 5 —

Галсін здивовано оглянув коробку з медовими тістечками, яку протягнув йому Тав, і обережно взяв тендітну річ.
— Дякую. Це несподівано та дуже приємно. Шкодую, що не можу нічого запропонувати у відповідь. Хоча… Почекай!
Він поставив коробку на пеньок, перетворився на ведмедя й швидко зібрався високо на дерево. Незабаром спустився, тримаючи у пащі квітку орхідеї. Тримав обережно, за довгу ніжку. І перетворився на людину, витер стебло та приладив квітку до волосся Тава.
— Тобі личить цей колір, — задоволено посміхнуся Галсін.
Тав посміхнувся у відповідь.
— Дякую. Я люблю квіти. Хочу дім посеред саду, повного квітів. Я не пам'ятаю мого минулого, але є почуття, що я хотів цього завжди.
— Чесно казати, я не люблю сади. Рівні стежки, геометричні клумби. Фігури з зелені. Це неприродне.
— Я теж не люблю регулярні сади, — відповів Тав. — Вони ніби воскові. Нудні. Але є такі, що мають вільну форму. Натуральну, як у справжніх галявин.
— Насправді? — зацікавився Гасін. — Можеш розповісти про це детальніше?
— Навіть покажу. Ґейл навчив мене робити малюнки з магічного світла. І хоча все буде бузковім, ти зможеш зрозуміти більш-менш точний вигляд тих садів. Малювати я не вмію, але пуголовок покаже тебе мої спогади безпосередньо. У мене мало що залишилось, але сади, в яких, можливо, колись гуляв, пам'ятаю.
Галсін сів на пеньок, поклав коробку з тістечками на коліна. І зацікавлено глянув на Тава. Той посміхнувся в відповідь і начарував малюнок.
Галсін охнув вражено, побачив кам'яні гірки, невеликі, іграшкові, але природно виглядавши озера, стежки між квітів і кущів, які малі той самій звивистий вигляд, що і у лісі. Самі кущі та клумби не були чітких форм, але їх нерівності завжди робились такими, щоб пестити погляд.
— Це неймовірне! — захопився Галсін. — Невже ж люди хоча б десь почали розуміти природу?
— Як бачиш, — Тав сів на ствол дерева, что колись тут обрушилось. — Не думаю, що вони далеко просунулися на цьому шляху, але початок зробили. Навіть дорога в десять тисяч миль починається одним-єдиним кроком.
— Це вірно, — кивнув Галсін. — І слова підібрані гарно.
— Це дуже давня приказка, — посміхнувся Тав. — Одна з моїх улюблених. То, що я пам'ятаю попрі усьому.
— У тебе мудре серце, якщо у ньому міцно оселились таки речи.
Галсін попробував тістечко.
— Чарівне! — він почав задоволено лимзати частування. І дав одне Таву. — Хоча це й твоє, але не можна їсти на самоті.
Тав помахом руки прибрав магічний малюнок і взяв тістечко, легенько торкнувшись пальців Галсіна.
— Ти розумієш сенс в ласощах, вірне? — посміхнувся Тав.
— Авжеж! І ти у цих справах добре розбираєшся, тако ж?
— Це не мені судити. Треба запитати того, хто з'їсть ласощі зі мною разом. Я можу лише обіцяти багатий вибір смаків. У таких справах фантазія ніколи не завадить. Як і трохи гарячих страв.
— Дуже вірно! — зареготнув Галсін. — І вельми приємно побачити такий розумний підхід.
— Зараз пора до шляху, — відповів Тав. — Але після кожній подорожі буває час відпочинку. Якщо прикрасити його будь-яким смаколиком, це буде непогано.
— Мій намет завжди готовий для такого гостя.
Тав посміхнувся задоволене і пішов до табору збиратися до чергової подорожі.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094774

Дрібненькі оповіданнячкі-фанфікі по "Baldur's Gate 3", написані по ходу першого проходження для заспокоєння власних емоцій і для мовної практики. І так, я граю українською.
Помилки перевіряв безкоштовний ШІ для школярів.
Джен, філософія, політика, трохи коханських стосунок без еротики.
Гру ще не пройшла, тому буде прода.
Прихильникам Вілла не читати! Тав не янгол! Слеш є. Решта на ваш ризик.

— 3 —

Коли Тав переплутав заклинання та замість того, щоб наділити гурт легкістю пір'їни, обрядив Тінесерду в рожевий обладунок, вона була у люті. Тем більш, що це було неможливо змінити до довгого відпочинку у таборі — у магії свої закони. Тінесерда не повірила, але Ґейл слові Тава підтвердив.
Тінесерда зітхнула та підкорилася поганої доле, лише молилася Темної Пани, щоб дала сіл це витримати.
А дали були чергові руїни з не в міру діяльними невмерлими. І велике дзеркало на стіни.
Тінесерда не хотіла у нього дивитися, це для клірикині негідно. Але раптом побачила.
І сховала дзеркало до рюкзака.
Чого не заперечуєш, коли розмова йде про Тава, так це те, що він має чудовий смак на одяг. Навіть позамежна незграба Ґейл після його порад перестав виглядати ніби селюк на ярмарці (чи ярмарочна мавпа) і перетворився на файного кавалера.
Вілл, зануда нестерпна, спочатку чинив опір вимогам Тава одягнути найдуже екзотичне вбрання, але програвши у кістки (Тав махлював, Тінесерда це бачила точно), підкорився. І став таким цікавим парубком! Навіть у Лей'зель слинки потекли, а шинкарки скрізь пропонували йому "трохи солодкого за рахунок закладу" — поки він мовчав, звісно. Ледве Вілл рота відкриє, від нього, як і раніше, усім хочеться втекти як можливо дали, навіть до мізкожерів.
Але оскільки у ліжку не розмовляють, Тінесерда запропонувала Віллу скоротити час очікування у таборі, коли вони неробно бовталися із кута до кута, інтимною грою.
О, Темна Пані! Цей йолоп злякався та засоромився ніби друїдська незайманка!
Як таке непорозуміння змогло зрости при дворі герцога, Тінесерда не могла встигнути.
І трохи потішилася з Воло. Ну треба ж остудити кров після невдалої розмови с красенем-імпотентом.
У скиту Шар не дарма казали, що для леді нема краще ліжкової іграшки, ніж бард.
А ще у леді завжди є дзеркало.
І раніше Тінесерда зневажала їх за це. "Потягни за сумочку і отримаєш душу жінки".
Але зараз у голови вперто крутилася думка, що трохи вбрання не пошкодить, пока вона не у скиту.
І це усе дуже міцно з'єднувалося зі спогадами, які розбудила клята шляхтоніжка.
Та щоб гобліни Тава з'їли! Це він змусив її скористатися цим грибом. Теж нашахраїл, напевно.
Але все ж Тінесерда була йому дуже вдячна. Повертати себе для себе виявилось вельми приємним.
І Тінесерда не хотіла це втрачати.
А зараз ще ці обладунки… Тінесерда бачила заздрість жінок і захоплення чоловіків від її вигляду. І себе бачити у дзеркалі стало раптом приємно.
Тінесерда боялася, що не захоче повернутися до скиту. І це лякало. Вірність Шар була сенсом її життя.
Вона не знала, що робити без скиту. Але запитала Тава, що краще купити у торгівця. І перший раз у житті взяла то, що бажала, а не то, що треба. Дуже файну сукню кольору смарагда й золота Та ще вишукане чоботи для неї.
І зараз милувалася собою у дзеркалі.
Решта почекає. Ці всі справи можна вирішити пізніше.
"Завтра. Я подумаю про це усе завтра".
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094774

Дрібненькі оповіданнячкі-фанфікі по Baldur's Gate 3, написані по ходу першого проходження для заспокоєння власних емоцій і для мовної практики. І так, я граю українською.
Помилки перевіряв безкоштовний ШІ для школярів.
Джен, філософія, політика, трохи коханських стосунок без еротики.
Гру ще не пройшла, тому буде прода.
Прихильникам Вілла не читати! Тав не янгол! Слеш є. Решта на ваш ризик.

— 1 —
— Кім би не була ця Абсолют, а у першу чергу вона скінченна дурепа, — Тав смажив на багатті нанизані на тонку гілочку шматочки м'яса та помідора. Вони зробили короткий відпочинок недалеко від дороги.
— Чому? — здивувався Ґейл.
Абсолют його лякала. Але й одночасно манила величезною магією.
Лей'зель пирхнула зневажливо:
— Із мізкожерами зв'язалась. Невже ж сам не розумієш?
Тав заперечливо хитнув головою:
— Ні. Це не причина, а слідство. Вона дурепа, і тому для неї немає інших союзників, крім мізкожерів і гоблінів. А дурепа вона тому, що бажає всіх скрізь перетворить на покірних ляльок без власної воли. Це означає, що вона змушена буде робити сама всі справи, від державних угод до очищення вигрібних ям у містах. Розумний керівник делегує справи тлумачним підлеглим і дає їм повну волю вирішувати усе за ситуацією. "Піди до того місця, дій за умовами та принеси мені приз". Діло правителя показати напрям, але не бігати у справах. І стежити, як змінюється шлях до мети через зміну обставин. Світ постійно змінюється, тому потрібен керівник, щоб коригувати маршрути. А дурепа Абсолют діє так, ніби світ статичний. Чи намагається зробити його таким, а це неможливо.
Ґейл дивився на Тава здивовано, а Лей'зель кивнула.
— Так. Влаакіт дає наказ, але як його виконати, гіти вирішують сами. Тому чим швидше ми очистимося від пуголовка, тим краще. Хтозна, коли ця гидота прокинеться та перетворить нас на мізкожерів і рабів Абсолют. Нам пощастило, що наші пуголовки сплять, але це не назавжди.
Астаріон мовчав. Привертати на себе увагу зараз безглуздо. Він минулою ніччю змушений був проказав себе як вампіра, і зараз залишається у гурту тільки через заступництво Тава, якого переконав у свої корисності. Але якщо гурт наполягатиме, Тав Астаріона виженіть, а це смерть. Астаріон не зможе ховатися від колишнього господаря-викрадача на самоті — вкрав один раз, вкраде й другий. І тоді будь-яка смерть буде краще покарання, яке зробить для нього Казадор. А дати йому відсіч Астаріон не має сили, і хтозна, чи отримає її колись. Втекти другий раз немає чого навіть мріяти, тому що перший вдався тільки через щасливий випадок. Другий раз доля не буде настільки щедрою. Та й гроші заробляти Астаріон, як уроджений шляхтич, теж не дуже придатний, але жити з жебраками по безкоштовним нічліжкам, збирати одяг у ящиках для пожертвувань біля храмів не хотілося.
Тому треба підкорити цей не найкращий, але вельми корисний гурт, у якому Астаріон раптово опинився.
Але щоб маніпулювати усім гуртом, а не тільки Тавом, потрібен час.
І оскільки Тав тут вирішувач, треба підкорити у першу чергу його. Секс — засіб безвідмовний, у цей справі нікого краще Астаріона нема. Тав вже погодився отримати з Астаріону компенсацію за укус сексом. І після прийдешньої ночі він буде ніби віск у пальцях Астаріона, бажаючи від нього все нових і нових пестощів.
Можливо.
Було щось дивне у Тави. Якась інаковість, це робило його іншим, ніж усі, кого Астаріон колись знав.
І це збуджувало. У якийсь повіки секс для користи буде ще й приємним. У ті роки, коли Астаріон домагався посади магістрата, з впливовими коханцями та коханками було набагато гірше. Коли б не розваги по борделях, було б зовсім нестерпно.
А Тав… У той час Астаріон звабив би його просто для свого задоволення — навіть коли вже став магістратом, і йому самому почали намагатися платити не тільки золотом, але й сексом.
— Із цього слід, — казав тим часом Тав, — що сама Абсолют давно перетворилася на іграшку в руках придворних. Але вони теж таки ж дурні, інакше не намагались би обрати той же шлях. Хіба що в них буде ставка на свій гурт із тих, хто не має пуголовка. Зграя пастухів і безмозкі вівці. Теж не працює, тому що для солодкого життя керівникам треба ще мати тих, хто буде вовну мити, прясти та продавати одяг. І те, хто його купить. Справа Абсолют приречена на поразку так саме, як і її ляльковик. Але це буде не завтра. І ми маємо багато ризику до цього не дожити. І водночас маємо шанс отримати величезні можливості та зробити для себе життя набагато краще того, що було. Якщо будемо діяти обережно та розважливо.
— Не може бути нічого корисного від мізкожера! — взвилася Лей'зель. — Це гидота! Від усього цього треба позбавитися!
— Я нічого не казав про мізкожерив чи Абсолют. Я кажу тільки про силу, яку ці недоумки мають і невміло користують. Сила сама по себе не зла й не добра. Вона навіть не має власний воли. Це просто річ, яку бере будь-який, хто може. Подумай, якою корисною та важливою ти будеш для твоєї королеві, як вона тебе нагородить і підвищить, коли ти отримаєш силу більш ніж зараз. Не відповідай відразу, тільки подумай неспішно.
Лей'зель надулася на нього, ніби дитина, яку татко умовляє з'їсти корисну вівсянку.
— Tsk'va. Ненавиджу, коли ти маєш рацію!
Астаріон заціпенів. Тав хоче стати Абсолют?! Це… А чому ні? Він вже зробив багато такого, що не несила іншим. Принаймні, Астаріон отримає на цьому шляху чимало користі, можливо навіть засіб знищити Казадора з усією його мерзенною зграєю. І встигне втекти, якщо у Тава щось піде небажаним чином.
Тому треба переконати його у своїй вірності. І розпалити у ньому нестерпну спрагу до тіла Астаріона.
У обох справах Астаріон був майстром ще задовго до перетворення на вампіра. Але й Тав виявився набагато складнище високопосадних балдурців і навіть Казадора, його колишнього (добре, ще не зовсім колишнього) викрадача та господаря.
І все ж Астаріон не хотив здаватися.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094774

A long time in a galaxy far, far away, everything was completely different from what was written in the history textbooks at the demand of the rulers and their rivals.
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.


— 5 —

"Do quchu-yinying!" Tina demanded. "Quickly, if you want to live!"
"Do what?" I didn't understand.
She made some signs in the air. I repeated them, but nothing happened.
"Put the Force in it, you idiot!" Tina growled. "Faster or you're finished!"
I still didn't understand anything, but I did as she said. She didn't mean me any harm, unless the Force was lying. And I was too confused and scared to decide for myself.
I felt a pleasantly cool wave of Force, and that was it. Tina smiled faintly.
"All the data from all the tracking devices in the library for the last minute has been erased. The cameras and microphones will be working again shortly."
A new wave of Force, or rather a shadow of the wave, told me that surveillance had been activated. A moment later, security ran into the library.
"It was boys," Tina said. "They threw a firecracker and ran off. I didn't see their faces. And I'm not hurt. And you?" She looked at me.
"I'm fine. And I didn't have time to see them either too."
I didn't feel the Force in Tina, but she hid the consequences of its use very confidently and skilfully.
The guards left. And Tina said:
"Never try to talk to me. Never at all. I don't communicate with Force-wankers."
She, barely holding back a painful groan, rose on her crutches and hobbled towards the exit. I still didn't understand anything, but I wasn't surprised. This is my usual fate: as soon as something good starts, some absurd accident ruins it.
I'm back on my project. There's still some time left before the end of this lesson, and I need to finish collecting the material.
And then... I'll write everything as it is. If I get kicked out of the Academy, I'll sit in a municipal school until the end of the school year. They're required to accept students at any time. And I'll start fourth grade at some good online school. Anyway, real life rejects me wherever I go. Things are going much better for me on the net.
And I wrote everything I thought. And about the fact that the Resistance fought with meat, that is, didn't consider the losses in manpower, too. The Empire, in my opinion, took care of people, despite the fact that its stormtroopers were only good for killing unarmed peasants. In short, a plague on both your houses, as Major Tucker said about the Order and the Guard, about the Galactic Republic and the Empire. (I know about Shakespeare; I'm not a savage or an ignoramus.)
Tucker was well versed in the subject. He had been raised as a Sith since birth, and at sixteen he had run away to the Jedi. Tucker had been there for three years, and when he had finally become convinced that the Light Ones were no different from the Dark Ones, he had fled to the nearest Foreign Legion on a well-developed planet.
Tucker had served Kadvir for two years when the Tivan Border War began. Tucker had shown great valour, and the government had given him ahead of schedule citizenship, awarded him the Order of the Purple Rose, and sent him to the Army College. Tucker said he had always known that Major was the highest rank he was fit for. But Tucker had earned it quickly. He said that Kadvir's army was fair.
Tucker had planned to happily remain a major until age retirement, but a serious wound forced him into disability retirement. His military base gave him recommendations for several schools and security companies to keep him from becoming depressed and feeling useless and alone. He chose the Irene Weiss School because it was near the house Tucker had bought shortly before his wound.
...Strangely enough, my project was a success. There was an interesting discussion with my classmates; I even formed my own faction in the game of the Great Council of Worlds, which was organised by the teacher. She made some purely technical corrections to my project without affecting its meaning and sent it to the competition.
I didn't mind. I needed the scores for the university.
It was much worse with the Force. It didn't manifest itself in any way; none of the Jedi or Sith training Major Tucker recommended helped to find it. But I understood that hoping for liberation from the Force was stupid. It will crawl out when it is least needed.
The project took an unexpected turn. Sliff Tfail, a Serpenian guy from our strategy study group, brought me a high school girl, the captain of the football team, to help her develop a programme to kick ass for the Genuill Kid College team.
I was a little surprised by Sliffe's choice; football is not the most convenient sport for Serpenians; they, with their four arms and ability to stand on the end of a long tail, they are basketball stars, but if the football team sees his usefulness as a player, then to hell with stereotypes.
I knew nothing about football and had not yet caught the school rivalry bug, but the task itself intrigued me. I began to study the rules and the results of the games. I also got Sliffe involved; he is a footballer and should be able to be an analyst.
He resisted a little, saying that he could only kick the ball around but not plan, but he obeyed the captain, who found my idea useful.
"Sliff can talk anyone into anything, that's why I'm here," the captain said. "He must be my successor. I'm in my penultimate year at this school, and I'll have time to prepare him. Sliff can manage people; he will be able to keep the team united and motivated."
I modelled match variants; the captain liked my ideas; she even invited me to train and watch famous professional matches. And with Sliff, we started talking about movies and books and doing homework together. (Boarding school and homework, yes). We even started building a common farm in a sandbox video game.
Of course, a story this good couldn't help but end in complete failure. The Force. That scoundrel showed up exactly when Sliff and I had escaped the noise of the classrooms for independent work and were doing our homework in the garden. I was writing essays for both of us in Ur-Kittât, the ceremonial dialect of the Sithish, and Sliff was solving his and my math tasks.
As Kadvir is a neutral state, ordinary citizens do business with both the Republic and the Empire. Sithish, with all its three dialects, and Republic Basic Standard are the most useful for finding good jobs. They are the most commonly taught in schools. And yes: Republican Basic Standard is the language of the Big Republic, Republicish, but not the pan-galactic language, no matter what the Republic imagines of itself as the centre of the universe.
There are many places in the galaxy that are highly developed economically, legally, and scientifically where people have no idea of the Republicish and value Bocce and Sithish more (it is not only spoken in the Empire and its satellites).
Kadvirish is also quite popular.
But enough about linguistics. There are more important problems. I, cursing the ban on the use of gadgets and Galaxnet during homework time and the power of the jammers that would not allow me to turn on the phone, dug into the damn paper dictionary and grammar reference, trying to figure out where I had screwed up, trying to express Sliffe's idea about the future of sport on Ur-Kittât. The phrase sounded awkward, and this language is quite musical; everything should sound smooth; the runes should also form a harmonious ribbon, similar to lace.
I began to hum the phrase, hoping to find the error that way. But my ears are hanging on a tree in music; even Sliff, who was not at all brilliant in Sithish, fell off the bench onto the grass laughing.
"The tail of the Great Iffu! Eirian, did you hear what you said?!"
I looked at him sombrely. Sithish is a tonal language, and the same word, pronounced in different tones, has different meanings: "tuoshvi" in a rising tone means "game"; if the tone is falling, it is "river"; falling-rising means "breakfast"; rising-falling... There are eight tones in total in all, and a harmless phrase can easily turn into an obscene curse.
At my previous school, my Mum consoled me by saying that the CEO only reads the most important correspondence and writes replies, and my Dad said that when I start getting serious about business, I will hire the most beautiful Sith of any race as a translator. But at this school, much more attention was paid to rhetoric, and I immediately slid from "good" to "satisfactory" and even to "insufficient". I was lucky that I didn't get "failure".
I sighed, added a transcription and tones in Common Sith to the phrase, and tried to read it, conducting myself with my hand. It turned out, judging by Sliffe's amusement, even worse than before: a person devoid of musicality sincerely believes that he sings correctly, but those around him say that he has not hit a single note. I did not sing, but the principle is similar.
"Unbelievable! You're not even conducting in time!" laughed Sliff.
Okay, to hell with Sliff's hilarity, but I found the error. I rewrote the phrase, added the transcription, and started reading, again helping myself with hand movements.
Out of nowhere came a river of packets of ready-to-eat breakfast foods; the tip is "Just Add Water". Each one, in addition to the company name and logo, had the words "Receive a ticket to the game of the season!". Sliff shouted in horror and ran away.
And I was stunned with amazement, seeing the Force for the first time. Streams of black, white, and grey plasma intertwined, flowed into each other, and broke up into bright big sparks of all those colours that monochrome actually consists of. And again gathered into three streams of plasma.
The Force disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. And I woke up from my stupor. A pile of drifter food, a frightened friend who doesn't want to know me, and an upcoming grand scandal in the media: "The heir of Gwalchtan-TNC is a Forsian without self-control, dangerous to society." So what next? A boarding shelter for freaks, life with parents on a wild planet, or being forced to choose between the Order and the Guard?
The media will latch onto parents simply because they are a fat target. The proletarians and office plankton love it when the media gnaws at the rich and do not think that a scandal that caused a fall in shares will leave them without work: business partners will rush to escape from the noise so as not to get caught in the crossfire themselves, banks will not give loans, and similar events. The lumpen will add fire, since yelling at protests for free booze is their favourite pastime.
I headed for the school building. I was hoping the "Put on a cheeky face and accuse everyone of slander" option would work. I don't know anything; I'm a victim; I was lying unconscious, and that's all!
To my surprise, all the students had gathered in the hall on the second floor, where the self-study classes were, and were shouting at the top of their lungs and discussing the appearance of Forcian at the Academy.
Sliff ran up to me.
"Hooray, you're alive! I saw you washed away by the Force. I called for help. They didn't believe me!"
"I wasn't washed away. I fell behind the bench and passed out."
Sliff pulled me to the nurse, telling me that he saw a very tall, even by adult standards, human or reptiloid in a uniform jacket and kepi, who staged a provocation with the Force.
"But why does Forcean need so much drifter food?" Sliff wondered. "If he wants to go to the match, he can charm the stadium security and sit in the VIP box. No need to win a prize for an economy class seat. A kepi and a jacket in the summer—he's just arrived from the Frontier Belt. When my family moved here, we were cold even in the summer the first year."
I followed him listlessly, trying to figure out what was going on. "Tall"—Sliff was lying on the grass when I was standing, so his shocked brain could remember me like that. Jacket and kepi—I shiver the whole time. Everyone except the new settlers from the Belt, Tina, stoned on sedatives, and me, the eternally sick one, wears short-sleeved uniform shirts.
But otherwise... Why doesn't Sliff remember that I was the author of the witchcraft? Someone has done some serious work on his memories. But who? It certainly wasn't me, and it certainly wasn't the Force itself. There's another Forcean here. And for some reason, they have rescued me.
But what do they want in return?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14376014/1/My-Own-Game

A long time in a galaxy far, far away, everything was completely different from what was written in the history textbooks at the demand of the rulers and their rivals.
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.

— 3 —

Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.

When enemies fly around the schoolyard like volleyball, it's nice. But it raises unnecessary questions.
There was never much bullying in my school. And yet, there was always some of that nastiness. Of course, I was the most favourite victim. So I knew perfectly well where the surveillance cameras were located, which would immediately raise the alarm if their AI noticed something prohibited.
Chris, Thara and Mgono smashed one of the cameras with something long-range. I don't know how they got it past the security indicators. It was probably a simple homemade slingshot, like on the primitive planets. But it doesn't matter.
The real problem was the Force. After about half a minute of me trying to break free, an invisible wave came from somewhere and threw the assholes in different directions.
I was afraid they would break their bones—I hate this trio, but I hate harming people even more. Even if they barely fit the definition of "people." And the wave obediently reduced its intensity; these three idiots escaped with bruises.
When Chris, Thara and Mgono were pushing me around like a ball, everyone in the yard tried hard to pretend that nothing was happening. But as soon as the three of them started pretending to be birds, a general howl arose. The guards came running, the teacher on duty, and I, along with the three chumps, were taken to the principal.
"I didn't expect this from you, Mx. Gwalchtan!" he exclaimed.
"And did you expect it from these gentlemen?" I asked, nodding at the trio. "And did nothing to prevent vandalism and violence?"
The principal's eyes bulged out indignantly, and he launched into a speech about how it was not for me to judge the behaviour of adults.
"The mass media will be interested to know about victim-blaming," I interrupted him. "And about violence."
"Are you blackmailing me?" The principal instantly became furious. "You brought a weapon to school!"
The trio behind me were silent and even tried to breathe every other time. They were stupid, but they had been to the principal often enough to understand: if you were caught breaking the rules, you had to try to impersonate furniture, blend into the wall, then the punishment would be less severe.
"Did I bring a weapon through your security?" I said sarcastically. "The Parents' Council and the Trustees' Committee will also be delighted. By the way, what did this trio use to break the camera? Didn't they hurt themselves with these same weapons because of their clumsy hands?"
"You are suspended from classes for a week for insolence and arguing!"
This is serious. Being suspended greatly reduces your personal score for university admission. Even if you do well on the national exam, your personal score may not be enough to apply to a good university.
I tried to smile politely:
"And the mass media will find this a very interesting topic."
"The mass media will bring down the stock price of your father's company," the principal said through gritted teeth.
"My Mum is a trader now and a crisis manager in the past. She knows how to make stock rise out of a scandal. But this school has no specialists. And my parents will be very proud that I am defending my honour from unfounded accusations."
The principal hissed in anger—in the literal sense, he is a reptiloid, and some things are beyond his control, just as humans cannot control the reddening of their faces.
"You will study only remotely until the state exam," he decided. "To preserve your health. I will call the speeder and the escort droid now. And the three of you," he nodded at Chris, Thara, and Mgono, "go to the classroom. I will have a special talk with your parents."
I sat down in the visitors' chair, watching with some glee as the trio turned sour. They were too stupid to realise the danger the mass media was to their parents' business, and they were confident that they could get away with bullying because it was approved by their parents, but the magic phrase "stock quote" still pressed the panic button in their empty heads.
Chris, Thara and Mgono left. I traced a flower on the upholstery of the chair with my finger. Phones are forbidden at the school; they have to be handed in at the entrance, so waiting is boring. I hope the speeder and the free droid (both of which constantly carry out the principal's orders) will come quickly.
The secretary-droid's communicator on the principal's desk reported that Major Tucker urgently wanted to see him regarding the Mx. Gwalchtan case.
Interesting. Tucker is a retired Army officer who teaches military science to high school students. I only know him because of his beauty (he is tall, has big green eyes, brown wavy hair, antique features, and the same figure), the girls and some boys in our class often talk about him and look forward to when they grow up to prepare for the army—as if that would stop them from being schoolchildren and little pieces, and Tucker would become so stupid that he would forget about it.
Two years of conscript military service are mandatory for everyone in Kadvir; we have to protect our neutrality. But there are many different types of service, not just running around with a blaster. Dad served in a unit that repairs and maintains droids in government-run nursing homes for the disabled and elderly. His mother was ill, his father had died, and he had to manage businesses that employed many people. Daytime service in nursing homes allowed him to at least attend to the affairs of Gwalchtan-TNC in the evenings. And my Mum needed to save more money for her parents for a down payment to buy her own bakery and needed extra scores for the university to get a scholarship. So my mother chose combat service; she was a heavy fighter pilot on the border. She didn't miss the opportunity to improve her staff manager skills, attended various additional classes, and quickly became a crew commander. And at the university, immediately after entering, she received certification in three subjects and was able to spend this time learning additional skills. Well, with a good down payment, she easily took out a mortgage.
But that's not the point. How does a high school teacher know about a thirteen-year-old schoolkid, and why does an army person need someone who is doomed to receive the stamp "Unfit for all types of service" in their personal file?
"Mx. Klharr," Tucker began, barely greeting, "Mx. Gwalchtan's essay has attracted the interest of the Youth Military Academy. I must discuss the possibility of a transfer with them."
"What?!" I said at the same time as the principal.
"What kind of transfer can there be," asked the principal, "if physical training is not available for Mx. Gwalchtan?"
"Don't exaggerate, Mx. Klharr," Tucker chuckled. "This is a regular middle and high school. No one there forbids you to replace physical education with a library if your child has health problems. Except that the Youth Military Academy has a special uniform, military history, and strategy tasks. It was in the latter that Mx. Gwalchtan distinguished themselves. Their essay proved interesting to the Academy due to a very original analysis of the Battle of Vistlavia. And yes, it was I, as befits a Major in Kadvir's army, albeit retired, who presented the essay to the Educational Council at the Academy. Mx. Mary Davidson came to me to consult about the grade that Mx. Gwalchtan's work deserved."
Wow! I actually wrote such an essay for another project on logic—the Battle of Vistlavia was in history at this time, and it seemed to me that it illustrated well the problems that we studied in logic.
I didn't think anyone read the essay except Davidson, the logic teacher. She didn't even single out my essay from the others. She silently gave it an "Excellent" and that was it. The history teacher didn't say anything either.
The sensor horns on the principal's head spread out in irritation. He didn't like a student with problems, but he didn't want to lose the goose that lays golden eggs, that is, awards at competitions and scores in the school's rating.
"Mx. Klharr?" said Tucker.
"The question of transfer is decided by Mx. Gwalchtan's parents."
"But only after the student expresses their free opinion about what subjects they want to study and where. If you want, after me, Mx. Gwalchtan will talk to a psychologist."
"You're both free," the principal muttered. "Major Tucker, after the conversation, take Mx. Gwalchtan home and talk to their parents."
Tucker led me to his small office on the teachers' floor, pointed to the guest chair, sat down in the work chair, and said:
"I want to dot all the i's, Mx. Gwalchtan. Your essay really interested the Military Academy, but they will write to your parents without my participation. I must talk to you about something else." He made a movement with his hand, and a bottle of soda and two glasses flew from the shelf by the wall onto the table. And I felt a wave of Force. It turned out to be pleasant.
Oops... Tucker is a refugee from the Guard or the Order.
"I don't want to be either a Sith or a Jedi," I said. "Sith see enemies everywhere, and Jedi find Dark Force at every turn."
Tucker raised an eyebrow. It was either an irony or a surprise.
"I've heard that crippled and poor children are psychologically much more mature than their biological years. But you've gone a bit overboard with your age. Don't rush to grow up, buddy. Enjoy the carefree childhood while it lasts."
Yeah, my parents are smarter. They never said such nonsense.
"Childhood is a prison," I said. "Therefore there can be no child who does not want to become an adult as soon as possible."
"Be kind enough to explain, Mx. Gwalchtan," Tucker said discontentedly.
"You are under someone's control all the time; you are forbidden many things, and you must get permission for everything. And at the same time you constantly hear that at eighteen you will be in charge of yourself. And the law will guarantee you the right to speak, obliging the world to hear you. But until then, your opinion doesn't matter."
"Have you talked about this with your parents?"
"Many times," I answered. "Mum and Dad warned me that the world will always treat a cripple like a child, so if I want to be free and heard at eighteen, I need to learn independence and maturity early."
Tucker was surprised, thought about it, and said reluctantly:
"You are lucky with your parents."
"Very lucky," I nodded. "But I have a question for you, Major Tucker. My Mum says that a good army is not held together by obedience but by iron jawed. A good soldier must always be ready to make his own decisions and act independently, because the big shoulder straps cannot see where the charges are flying at you and the civilians behind your back."
"That's right," Tucker nodded. "A soldier has orders, but they act according to the situation, and if their willfulness ends in failure, they will go to hard labour for many years, but if one succeeds, they will be greeted as a hero. Remember the recent events in the Frontier Belt? A huge gang of terrorists attacked Kadvir's territory on the planet Ivrion. It was an agricultural sector with a small number of border guards. And the crew of one tank, four conscript girls, who were busy with another training raid, didn't listen to the order to return to the base but went to check on the village nearby. If they had died, everyone would have said, "To hell with them, the fools, but it's a shame about the tank." If the girls had been captured, everyone would have been angry that they had to be rescued to be brought to justice. But these young ladies repelled the attack of a large group of terrorists and saved the village. Houses, fields, and people were not damaged. The award to these brave and resourceful ladies was presented by the president in the Main Hall of Celebrations, and all of Kadvir learned of their feat."
"Sassy, self-confident, and unpredictable," I said. "That's what made them heroes, and that's what saved people. But why did those qualities of Anakin Skywalker cause so much negativity in the Jedi Order? After all, a Jedi always acts alone, far from the possibility of requesting reinforcements; they must bend a negatively minded and violence-used environment; they must be unpredictable in order not to be killed and, moreover, to complete the mission. I think the Sith have the same: a step to the right or left of the intended line is a crime, although reality requires a different approach."
"Anakin is a mediocre creature," Tucker said. "Just a bag of midi-chlorians. Anakin himself was worth little. Take the Force away from him, and he'd be an unremarkable office plankton or a repairman in a shop. There are crowds of such people on every corner, and they all cost one galactic credit per bundle. The Jedi have a truly tragic history." Tucker sighed and paused. He took a sip of soda and said: "Qui-Gon Jinn. With his intellect, unconventional thinking, and diplomatic talent, he would have made a brilliant career in any transgalactic corporation or in the politics of any country. And for the Jedi, he was like a suitcase without a handle, which is inconvenient to carry, but they don't want to throw him away so that the enemy doesn't get him, and they are afraid to put him in the garbage shredder because it will cause general indignation. I don't understand what made him stay in the Order. Same with Oliver Nullen and Ghrao Myodi with the Sith."
I thought about what was said. Qui-Gon's personality didn't attract my attention, but this seems to be due to inexperience and insufficient knowledge of life. I am only thirteen, and this is not enough to fully analyse the situation. I need to find more information, think about it, talk to my parents, and think it over again myself.
"You have done a lot of good work, Mx. Gwalchtan. But you have much more to do. And this work is too hard for a child. I am not afraid to tell you this, because you are mature enough to assess your capabilities sensibly. And I offer you my help. Your parents know nothing about the Force, do they?"
I bit my lip. Maybe I was wrong, and my silence doesn't save Mum and Dad but puts them in danger? And not only them. Gwalchtan-TNC gives thousands of people a living. During his army years, Dad gave up his dream of becoming a combat pilot to save the company.
But I'm not just a naive child with the Force who can be used in their games. I'm also a valuable hostage and the heir to a not very large but quite tangible fortune. There are too many who want to gain my trust and manipulate me for money.
There is a third reason for hesitation and doubt. My parents, sincerely wanting to save me, destroyed my health. I can't blame them; I don't know what I would have done if Forsean had been my child. But I don't want them to do something like that again, trying to protect me.
I need the support of someone who knows not only the Force. This person must also know the Order and the Guard well.
But how sincere is Tucker in his desire to help?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14376014/1/My-Own-Game

What are gender-neutral WELSH names? I know Welsh is a very gendered language, but there are probably one or two boy+girl names.